That which cannot be

A month later, January 18, the new work of the director Khamdamov miraculously goes out. Vasily Koretsky-about what this strange crystal-lubby structure stands on.

As you must be known, a new (and perhaps the only thing that you can watch in the cinema is that the rest were all the same) the film Rustam Khamdamov is the Russian retelling of Rasomon. Well, that is, literally - into the shabby (here the wallpaper, the pipes flowed there) the house of a certain Grand Duke, an alcoholic and a sofa philosopher, a kind of reading and a seer (Svetlana Nemolyaeva) arrives in order to entertain the host with a story (“But only with one murder!” Strictly warns the heroine of Anna Mikhalkova, nervously tobing the chain. Medalon in a black dress). The murder, of course, will be made up: one version will be told by the gribe-gribes (straw-huts-cones of medieval Japanese will wittyly turn into wide-brimmed cotton mushrooms), the other is a captive robber, the third will tell the exhausted queen to confess the forest hermory, and the fourth is the dead tsar of Baba Yaga (Alla. Demidova). Between the chapters of the story, a real defile will take place along the palace corridors - in silence we will demonstrate the achievements of the costume artist and various types of aristocratic trips.

But the most important thing will begin after when the reading will delve into its handwritten leaves without pictures. The source material of Khamdamov, the Samurai action - Tyambara, suddenly dressed in birch bark and a bear on the hind legs will move to the Russian forest. Playing with a Japanese puzzle, Hamdamov blows out of nothing, from an empty bag, a whole genre that could exist in Russian cinema, go the story in a completely different way. Tyambara-the battlefield of traditions and innovation, commercial calculation, canon and nihilism-was the most important phenomenon during the Golden Age of Japanese cinema, in the 60s-70s. Among the fogs and in thickets, in bamboo groves and on the roofs of wooden castles there were dizzying experiments with shape and ideology. This could have been with us - the fabulous formalism of the strokes of darkness, the world of Bilibinsky beauties and fellows, Russian mossy Gothic, Modern, who hit the ground and turned out to be postmodern ... Alas, in Soviet cinema, which was disappointing to all genres, except for the production (well, of course, a civilian and horror from a foreign life), everything was like that, everything was like that Redeated to the outskirts of children's and national cinema. Somovskoy Baroque "Scarlet Flower" by Volotskaya or aesthetic folk films Ilyenko and Parajanov - this decorative art could become applied, but it was gone.

“A bag without a bottom”-by the way, also appeared from the application for children's cinema-as if filling out this gap between the Khanzhonkov studio and the Studii Studios (surprisingly, even the whole solemn antique kitsch, which was clogged with the chambers of the great prince, is very easy to represent in Japanese cinema in the early 1970s, the time, the Baroque opera and crystal chandeliers were still considered a sign of a sign special, causing luxury). It is amazing how subtly Khamdamov transplants to Russian land (birch grove, by the way, is cinematic no less than bamboo thickets) the most important thing in the films about samurai - choreography, plastic, movement. Stylized under the old -story, 17 frames per second, a seeding gait of “mushrooms”. The combat step of good fellows from princely chambers covered in satin corsets. The angular chaos of hand -to -hand combat on land and on the waters. The languid movements of the lovers - and the dumb prince - in the grass. A twisted witch with a wheelbarrow (hello samurai-wolf, who drove a deadly baby in the same car?). The shadow of the twig on the torso tied to the oak, dancing its separate dance. Forest, finally; Mirror Lake. Hamdamov brings us the wealth of monochrome textures, impossible here and in the 60s-for their functional, streamlined in inconsistency-and now-due to general blindness.

Digital chambers here work as if against their nature, filling the frame with a dead statical static, like death from a robber arrow, images, but smears of sunny glare, with the murmur of rays through the foliage, the rustle of shadows and silhouettes. And all this ridiculous Hamdam decadence with lafitniks, carved interiors and mysterious muttering in a paper cook-something like a frame or a frame that does not give a fairy tale with cotton mushrooms and mummers to break too sharply, scratching a rude world, exposing a technical seam along the edge. Well done wave the Viennese chairs, bottles are built in height and size, the maid opens a book that no one is going to read - any miracle to accomplish, requires compliance with the most strange rituals.